


Mercy

by kaeltale



Series: Half a Millennium of Savoir-faire [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood Drinking, Cults, Denial, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Getting Together, Pre-Canon, Savior Complex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vampires Being Assholes, Vivid Depiction of Ossuaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 12:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16954254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale
Summary: A tale from the life of young Emiel Regis, and how he ended up together with the vampiress who tried to save him.Told from her perspective.Part of my larger world of short stories written in the same head-canon universe. While the stories build off each other, there is no requirement for reading the other parts. Read in any order you'd like!





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fabulous [Merulanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean)! I can not stress enough how much their help has brought this story to life. With clever prompting and the calling out of my shit, they helped me to get to a place where I feel proud to post this. Thank you both so much!
> 
> Most of the allusions and references in this story are explained or implied, and many pieces come from Witcher canon (particularly the books), but it shouldn't be a requirement to have read the books or to know about these references. Kudos to anyone who picks them out!
> 
> As in all of my vampire-centric fics, Rasna (the Etruscan word for the Etruscans) is the name of the culture/language of the higher vampires. This was inspired by CDPR's use of Etruscan in Blood and Wine by the Unseen Elder. I pick pieces of canon that I like, and it shouldn't be assumed that I've adopted every part of CDPR's vampires or Sapkowski's in my fics.
> 
> With that said, please enjoy!

The catacombs of Ghelibol were unique. They were not the reliquaries of a forgotten age—the kind that many vampires took to in these trying times—but thriving sanctuaries that played an important role to the nearby village, and Carmilla loved her home there. Life was easier within the niche her pack had carved into the world of humanity.

Her collection, an assortment of vampiric baubles and tomes, was one luxury she enjoyed in this stable environment, and it was as precious to her as blood. So of course Emiel had made a habit of toying with it.

There was no surprise, when she returned to her tomb, to find him leaning in the alcove by the bookcase. He hadn’t seemed to notice her, with his nose embedded in one of her books, so she took a moment to assess the day’s situation.

It was apparent that he’d been aiming to impress; the outfit he wore was simply criminal—in the elegant black doublet that made his eyes shine like jet, and matching trousers that fit him like a glove. Carmilla knew right away that she was in trouble.

The way the velvet slinked down his back, begging to be touched, left her fighting to control her downward glances. His ass was just so—

No. Focus. What was it he wanted from her this time?

“Excuse me?” She cleared her throat at him.

“Oh!” Emiel’s back sprang straight, nearly knocking his head into a shelf. The tome he held fell to the ground, and Carmilla blinked to his side to tuck it back into place.

As he turned to face her, a grin plastered to his face, she chose to survey the rest of her tomb; her bedding was as she had left it along the far wall, the shelves were still full of clutter, and the bottle of blood she had chilled for later was unopened—a particular relief.

Anything was a welcome distraction to help keep her thoughts clean—

—or clear, she meant. Clear.

“Ah! Carmilla. I was just—” Emiel reached past her for the tarnished figurine of a capricornus, but she smacked his hand away.

“Is there something you’re looking for, Emiel?”

He pinched his lips together, returning to his perusal of her treasures. Each crumbling statue and moldy tome held a piece of their species’ lost culture. They were her conquests, the faded whisperings of a lost world that she had spent her youth piecing back together. The hair on her arms electrified as Emiel’s fingers brushed through the bric-à-brac, conjuring her memories like tiny megascopes which transmitted directly to her mind.

“Actually, yes,” Emiel said softly. “There’s something of value I was hoping you might help me to acquire. A scroll, in fact.”

The slight pull at the corner of his mouth confirmed that her mask was slipping.

Damn him!

“Oh? Does this scroll have a name?”

“The _Geiriau’r Gwehydd Mawr_.”

Carmilla frowned.

The holy scripture of the cult of Coram Ahg Tera, the _Words of the Great Weaver_ , was enshrined in the cathedral at the heart of Ghelibol village—planted there long ago by the Lion-headed Spider himself.

Emiel really was looking for trouble.

“Only that?” She raised a brow at him. “You could always try asking Coram for permission to borrow it. He knows of your interests.”

Even before he opened his mouth to complain, she knew that this would not be an option—their Elder was a secretive creature who liked to keep his flock in a web of illusions; vampire or human, the residents of Ghelibol played some part in his enigmatic designs—but it was worth it to see Emiel’s face crinkle with exasperation.

The added pout made him uncomfortably adorable. “Where would be the fun in that?”

“As I said, he knows of your interests. He will realize who to point at when the scroll goes missing. But still, you would rather go behind his back and pull me along with you?” Carmilla could feel her blood running hot.

“Well… only if _your_ interests are piqued.”

“No,” Carmilla hummed resolutely, and poked his nose as if it were an off-switch.

She turned to put her treasures back in order, hoping he would take the hint and see himself out. True, she was dying for another adventure, and her shelves had room to spare for new memories, but she wasn’t stupid. Why risk her home for Emiel’s boredom and a manuscript filled with lies?

But instead, Emiel hung over her shoulder, and when she felt his breath on her neck she shivered.

“I’ve heard that Coram wrote that rubbish himself, shortly after the Conjunction. There is a written form of _mekh Rasnal_ in the margins, untranslated by the cult’s human devotees.” He pulled her hands into his, drawing her attention back to his pleading eyes. “So few examples of our written language are left to us.”

Damn him, damn him, damn him!

She sighed, torn between her gut response to push him aside, and the urge to relax into his touch. “Do you have a plan?”

“That is what I need you for, my dear.” His smile danced back at her, and she felt her cheeks warm. “It’s your specialty.”

* * *

The plan was exceedingly simple, and Emiel hadn’t needed her at all to come up with such a scheme.

That night, before Coram accepted the full moon sacrifice, they would go to Ghelibol village, disguised in the robes of human devotees. The priesthood would be out in the square, distracted with their rituals, and the two of them could stroll into the cathedral’s shrine, take the scroll, and be out again in time for the festivities. Nothing fancy.

On nights like this the pack was free to walk the town, enjoying the celebration of moon and blood that came with a ritual sacrifice. She and Emiel could join them in the streets and no one, human or vampire, would bat an eye. It gave them the perfect cover should they be seen near the cathedral grounds.

When night fell, they left the crypt and made their way up the winding streets of the mountainside. Overhead there were already revelers at flight, casting their wings into the endless dark. The humans of Ghelibol had donned their robes, and paid no attention to the movement above them. They were herded toward the central square, led by some invisible shepherd.

Emiel fell in amongst them, mocking the devotees’ entranced state like some mindless ghoul. It only lasted a moment before his snickering broke the charade. Carmilla grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him into line, but she couldn’t keep the grin from her eyes. When his cheeks turned rosy she released his arm as if she’d been pricked.

“I smell fresh youths in the gathering this month,” Emiel whispered dangerously. “We’ll have a grand time once we’re out.”

“Keep your hands off them until we’re finished.” Carmilla glared and pulled her hood up. As the spires of the cathedral came into view, she knew their movements would be tracked if he kept acting up.

“Killjoy,” he muttered back, drawing up his hood as well. He went strangely silent, and she was satisfied to leave him with his thoughts.

Then they reached the village square; the last remaining obstacle before they could relax from public gaze. It was a wide market space, surrounded by shops and taverns and a large, gated wall which opened onto the streets and the churchyard gardens. Even without the evening’s silver light, the scene would be awash in grey; the stone structures melding flawlessly into the side of the cliff where the cathedral’s entrance could be found.

At the center of the square was a stage with steps leading up to a bare altar. Carmilla saw Coram’s disciples gathered around it, watching the devotees filter in from the streets, but Coram was not among them.

Emiel started fidgeting with the strap of his satchel as they passed beneath the eyes of their fellow pack members. It wasn’t like him to be so nervous when they played. Carmilla caught him by the sleeve and gave him a gentle tug in the direction of the gardens. The shadows there could take them safely to their destination.

Once they stood facing the fiery crackle of torches at the cave-like mouth of the cathedral, all Carmilla could feel was her own steady confidence and the siren call of the game.

“This is it,” She exchanged a knowing look with her accomplice. “Any last minute regrets?”

“Not at all,” Emiel’s voice took on an unexpected edge.

“If we get separated, meet me back at the square.” A tinge of worry struck her as she considered him. “Emiel…”

He stepped in closer, but kept his eyes cast to the side. “Yes?”

The knot in her gut gave her pause for fear. It was as though he was already guilty of something, but with Emiel it could have been any number of vices on his mind.

“Don’t do anything stupid. I’m not going to clean up your mess,” she huffed and whisked past him.

He gave her no clever response, but followed after.

When they entered into the hall, Carmilla found herself submerged into a morbid scene. The path forward was swathed in the bones of the cult’s departed devotees; arranged into deific murals painted from a palette of death. The walls of femurs and scapulae corralled them in, leading down into the heart of the structure.

Even to a vampire, the empty sockets of the skulls seemed to judge her as an intruder into this sacred space. The architects of the cathedral were clearly artists as well as fanatics; there was a kind of reverence in their naked flaunting of the dead.

It stirred a strange kind of curiosity in Carmilla. It wasn’t often that she considered the state of mortality that humans endured, but a setting like this begged to be questioned.

“Do these creatures have no love for life?” Carmilla whispered.

Emiel shrugged back at her. “They seem willing enough to test the boundaries.”

The devotees of the cult were volunteers, and rarely killed; not when a human produced far more blood if tapped over a lifetime. Carmilla couldn’t imagine the kind of lost soul who’d find themself here willingly.

And all because of some words that Coram had written for them hundreds of years ago.

“I don’t know if I should laugh. They seems somehow pitiful.”

“Regardless, I’m not one to complain.” Emiel gave her a cheeky smile. “It’s their funeral.”

“Really?” She rolled her eyes at him.

They turned another corner into a great, arched chamber that seemed to be carved straight out of the bedrock, and Carmilla immediately felt that there was something different about this space. It gave the impression of darkness, despite the torchlights, and made her feel like she had crossed into another world. It must have been from their depth into the mountainside, she reasoned. Here they were cut off from the sounds of the living, trapped in muted echoes from the underground complex, and the only decoration was there at the heart of it all, the Geiriau’r Gwehydd Mawr—encased in a hanging prison of bones.

Despite her lack of sensitivity to the cold, a chill went through her.

“I don’t like this place,” Emiel whispered.

Carmilla watched the cage above them, feeling like some monster might fly out at her. “There’s something familiar here, like a story I’m supposed to know, but I can’t explain…”

“I’m not one to question your craft,” his eyes flashed between the inky corridors encircling the chamber, “but perhaps it would be best if we hurried.”

Carmilla nodded and dispersed to fly between the prison’s bars. When she reformed again outside of it and dropped back to the floor, the scroll was in her hand. It was a piece of greyish leather, curled and unadorned, and a shade too close to that of her own skin.

“Coram is a sick bastard,” Carmilla laughed, wondering at how their Elder might have managed to tan vampire flesh. She waved the rolled up monstrosity at Emiel. “Is this what you were expecting?”

He hurried over and took it from her, peeling it open with wide eyes. “Well fuck me…” he gasped.

Carmilla peered around him, and tried to suppress all the images his meaningless suggestion had seared into her mind. She followed his eyes, but the text’s alphabet was completely foreign to her.

“What does it say?” she squeaked out from her parched throat.

“This,” he pointed to a set of hard-angled scribbles in the margins, “is definitely the writing system of the Rasna. I’ve never had a lengthy enough piece to decode it properly before now.”

“You can’t read it?” Carmilla blurted out, feeling stupid for it a fraction too late.

Emiel gave her a sour, indignant look. “Only the Elders know how, and they’re too traumatized with their longing for the home world to talk about it. I've tried.”

Of course he would not know how to read the language of the Rasna. Though it had seemed a matter of fact that Emiel’s spongy brain would have absorbed this information regardless.

“We should leave. Now.” He rolled the skin back up, and handed it over to Carmilla. “The disciples are returning.”

Indistinct murmuring grew from one of the halls, moving in their direction. She nodded, took a breath, and bolted back into the skeletal archways.

* * *

Carmilla’s heart pounded wild as they crashed against the outer wall of the courtyard. In one hand she gripped the sacred scroll to her breast, and in the other she held onto Emiel, warm and strong and shaking with adrenaline. She startled, dropping his hand at the realization of how close they were.

His face was bright with laughter as he gulped in air beside her. “We have got to do that again.”

The blood rushing to her ears had nothing to do with the thrill of the chase. He looked ravished and alive next to her, and she felt every bit as radiant in his glow.

Thankfully, he hadn't seemed to notice her fluster.

“Where to now?” She passed the scroll to him and threw off her cloak. The long tunic she wore beneath it wasn’t extravagant; with a low neck and loose sleeves it was comfortable enough for movement and flattering enough for the festival.

“Now, an alibi,” he chimed as he tossed his own cloak behind a nearby bush and shoved the scroll into his satchel. “The moon is full, and the night is young!”

As Emiel fixed his collar, Carmilla had to peel her gaze away from the delicious curve of his neck.

“Come, come!” He called over his shoulder.

The festival was decadent, with vampires of various forms aglow in coppery torchlight and the pale of the moon. Flames licked the shadows, inspiring movement and dance, songs were sung to clapping hands, and the fragrance of sweet autumn clematis filled the burning air. As the two of them joined their cryptmates in the garden square, it was apparent that the opening rituals had already been completed—hooded devotees meandered through the crowd, being caught and passed around from one pack member to another.

It was funny to think that they wouldn’t remember this night as it was. To the humans, this was a religious experience; an effect of the hypnosis gifted by Coram to the most devout. To the vampires, it was entertainment.

—and Coram Ahg Tera stood central to it all, his spell orchestrating their monthly festival. It caused him no apparent strain as he mingled with his guests, enjoying the rewards of his efforts. Golden curls haloed his youthful face, and draped in white garb—spectacular in contrast to the night—it was little wonder that he could be mistaken for a divine thing. His lips curled and his bright eyes twinkled when Emiel and Carmilla approached him.

With an arm stretched forward Carmilla fell into the expected bow, given in the presence of an Elder. Emiel stiffened beside her.

“Emiel,” Coram’s voice sounded like a lyre—ancient and musical, “Carmilla. I was wondering when you would join us.”

“Yes, yes. We’re honored,” Emiel clipped, pawing at his satchel while he scanned the crowd. “Is that a virgin I see?”

Carmilla rose from her bow just in time to gawk at his back. He abandoned her without a glance, making a beeline for a young human hooded with a gold trim. Her stomach turned to stone with the anxious feeling that Emiel was about to do something that _she_ would regret.

“Greetings, Elder.” She dipped her head in apology. “What a fine festival. My friend and I are eager to join in.”

Coram’s smile stuck to her mind like oiled leather, its crease revealing the detail of her intimate thoughts.

“Your other half has been looking for you.” He nodded in the direction of the courtyard wall. “I hope you haven’t disappointed her.”

Carmilla was glad for the diversion from his gaze; being near an Elder had always made her feel bare and defenseless, but tonight she feared what he might sleuth out of her.

The wilted vampiress he’d indicated was pressed into the wall, taking up as little space as possible. Carmilla’s twin could have been her mirror image if it hadn’t been for the difference in Orianna’s posture.

“I’ll let her know I’m here,” she replied warily.

“You do that. Such a shame it is for her to be alone on a night like this.”

She excused herself, and wove through the crowd toward her sister. Her heart sank as she noted the effort Orianna had put into her presentation this evening; she wore a crimson gown with an indecently deep neckline—vivid and sensual and the exact opposite to her usual palette of subtle mauves and modest grays. The way her arms crossed to cover up her bare skin spoke volumes of Orianna’s discomfort.

As she approached, Orianna slid her arms around Carmilla’s waist and buried her face into her neck. Carmilla wrapped around her like a living blanket and hugged her sister tight.

“Anni, you look stunning my dear.” She held Orianna out so she could take in the sight of her. The dress seemed to wear her more than she did it—though it was gorgeous. If only… Carmilla rubbed her thumbs into her sister’s shoulders, begging them to relax.

“You’re too kind, Milli.” Orianna pressed her painted lips into a smile, but the crease above her brows refused to bend. “Are you sure it’s not too much?”

Carmilla took her sister’s hand and spun her around, making a display of how the skirt rippled out. Its fluidity was made for dancing.

“It’s perfect.” Carmilla beamed back at her.

“Where’s Emiel?” Orianna looked away and worried her hair back behind her ear. “I saw him come in with you, but then he disappeared.”

“Off enjoying the refreshments—where else would he be?” Carmilla shrugged, not wanting to name the churning feeling in her stomach.

She and her sister had always been together, from the moment of their birth, and there was no one in the world Carmilla felt more protective of. The day her sister had confessed an attraction for the troublesome pup who always seemed to show up on her doorstep, Carmilla began to fear for Orianna’s heart. Emiel was rash, continuously running from himself, and it didn’t take much imagination to see what a wreck he could make of her sister.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Orianna scolded. “He’s very conscious of the things you say about him.”

“Good! Maybe he’ll do something with that criticism. He’s been a real nuisance tonight, and I wouldn’t put it past him to stir something up.”

“Everyone’s always expecting the worst from him. It’s not fair.”

“What’s unfair is how you stand here in the corner, wearing this breathtaking dress, while he’s out there having fun without you. Why don’t you go looking for him? Maybe flaunt your rosy cheeks with a smile or two?”

Orianna’s blushing nearly outdid her makeup. “Oh no, I couldn’t!”

“You can, and you are!” Carmilla grabbed her wrist and pried her sister away from the wall. “I’ll come with you.”

“Milli!”

“Anni, it's only Emiel.” Carmilla gave her no quarter. “He should be the one hiding away from you! Just relax.”

Orianna didn’t look convinced, but her protesting died as Carmilla pulled her out into the square.

When they finally found Emiel he was tucked into an alley, fantastically blood-soaked and latched onto the neck of a devotee. It was a good thing he wore black, Carmilla thought as she took in the way the slicked fabric clung to his chest.

She caught Orianna staring, transformed into a red silhouette; her hair, face, and dress all in matching shades.

“Emiel, you remember my sister, Orianna?” Carmilla tried to break the ice, pushing her poor sister forward.

His teeth parted from the human with a suctioned pop. “Carmilla, you came looking for me, hm?” He focused on her like she was the light at the end of a tunnel, and offered out the arm of his treat. The human’s face maintained an empty stare. “Here, try this one! It has a surprising quality for such thin blood.”

Carmilla shrugged, took the human by the palm, and bit into its wrist. The blood was good, but nothing to brag about. Emiel must have had quite a few drinks by now. After another small sip she passed the hand over to her sister and licked her teeth clean.

Orianna looked equally unimpressed as she drank, but she passed the human back to Emiel and gave him a sweet smile. “You have good taste.”

Emiel snorted and broke into a red-faced laugh, “I can hardly taste a thing!”

Carmilla tapped her foot, regretting the decision to join him at the party. She should have kept the scroll for herself, gone back to the crypt, and let her sister watch after him on her own.

Truly, what was it that Orianna saw in him?

“I’m glad you found me,” he leaned toward Carmilla, resting a hand on her shoulder, and she tensed under his weight. “I have something important I _must_ tell you. I mean, I’ve been meaning to… but I never—I couldn’t!” His brows knit together in a sobering plea, and she felt the urge to grab him by his collar and—

And probably hit him. Hard.

“Lovely,” Carmilla pulled herself away, “but it will have to wait. I’m going to pick my own drink. Stay here and watch my sister for me. I’ll be back.”

As she turned to leave, she could hear Orianna fumbling over what to say next.

“Emiel, I—I read your notes, you know. The ones you shared with the Elder. Was he… that is, if it’s ok to ask…”

Carmilla fogged away from the scene, unable to tolerate the pain of watching them talk. Her sister had a beautiful heart, but her lack of confidence was too irritating to bear sometimes, and Emiel’s intoxicated babbling was almost as bad as his constant need to involve Carmilla in his mischief. Now he would have no choice but to talk to Orianna, and she could learn to deal with him. Carmilla merely stood as a distraction to them both.

When she regained her form outside of the courtyard, her body shook, just as it had when she’d arrived with him earlier. She fell back against the wall and steadied herself.

If Emiel hurt her precious sister, she’d rip him limb from limb. She should have given Orianna more guidance when it came to dealing with his baggage. He was obnoxious when bored, and uncontrollable when drinking, and there wasn’t a gentle bone in his body. Even Dettlaff had called him out as a fool before he’d left the pack, and Dettlaff was the most empathetic of them all.

Couldn’t Orianna have picked a vampire like Dettlaff to fall for instead; someone who would care for her properly?

After another few breaths the shaking subsided, and Carmilla felt that she could return to the square without doing something reckless herself. Orianna and Emiel had left the shade of the alleyway and moved back into the open street. They appeared to be talking easily enough—or to be more accurate, Emiel was talking _at_ her sister with his trademark zeal—but Carmilla had no intention of returning to them. Instead she sampled a few drinks, greeted a few friends, and spun around a few times to the tune of a fiddle.

In the fun and the dancing, she eventually lost sight of her sister, but it was not a concern… just a noteworthy thing. The chat with Emiel had likely gone horribly well, and Orianna had run off alone with him to some romantic overlook—flying about, gazing at the stars, and all that other nonsense.

Carmilla wasn’t bitter—in truth she was very happy for her sister—but the two of them together were going to be such a chore to look after. It was a disaster waiting to happen, and she would have to be there to guide them on the right course.

She cared for them, after all. Both of them.

It wasn’t until the music stopped and the devotees started running that Carmilla realized something had gone wrong.

Suddenly there was chaos. Something had broken Coram’s trance, and the humans were screaming, wide-eyed and trying to escape. Carmilla took a moment to get her bearings in the turbulence. There were vampires spreading their wings all around her, taking to the skies despite their inebriation. Many of her cryptmates were heading in the direction of the churchyard, and so she followed after them.

“No!” Orianna’s voice cracked through the noise, and Carmilla homed in on her location. “He didn’t mean it!”

“As a matter of fact, it was exactly what I had meant to do.”

Emiel stood long-clawed and defiant, with his back to the crowd. At his feet was the ragdoll body of the devotee he had been drinking from earlier, and just beyond that stood Coram, in the form of a terrible beast.

Spidery wings had sprouted from their Elder’s back, and the curls that covered his head spread down his neck and shoulders, surrounding his jagged maw in a fiery wreath. One hand was wrapped around the Geiriau’r Gwehydd Mawr as he loomed over them.

She saw Orianna fall to her knees behind Emiel, and rushed to cradle her without a second thought. As the men clashed around them, Carmilla hummed a lullaby in her sister’s ear.

“You think to steal from mine, and then desecrate my flock on this holy night?” Coram laughed, his voice stripped of its lyrical cadence. “Tell me, young one, what do you hope to gain?”

“Answers!” Emiel cursed at him before splaying out his arms and taking flight. He launched his talons at Coram, but the Elder merely stepped aside and let him collide with the earth.

He walked over to Emiel, and the young vampire let out an angry shriek. His wings dug into the ground to prepare another leap, but when Coram glared at him, his movements froze.

“A disgrace. He tries my patience.” The Elder ruffled his mane, and in a blink, he was once again wearing the face of an idyllic youth. His eyes flashed with a malevolence that stole the beauty from him.

“This is my pack, and my rules.” He clutched onto the scroll tight as he looked over them all. The static bat clinging to the cobbles shifted back into Emiel and took in a heaving breath. “Life and death are _mine_ to give. I have little use for insurgents.”

When the back of his hand found Emiel’s face, Carmilla felt the blow echo in her heart. Emiel slipped backwards on his elbows, fear etched into him, then vanished in a puff of fog.

“Anni, stay here and do as the Elder says,” Carmilla hushed her sister before letting her go.

Orianna had a blank expression. “He didn’t mean it, Milli.”

“I know.”

* * *

Emiel was always the most beautiful in the daylight. When Carmilla found him on the sepulchre roof, hunched over the ledge like some seething gargoyle, the sight of him overthrew all her convictions. She approached him slowly, certain that he was aware of her presence but trying to gauge his mood. The dawn reflected in the liquid black of his doublet and his feathered tufts of hair, and from a distance he was a sight too serene to touch.

Still, she gathered herself and reached out to bridge the distance.

At first he didn’t move. He didn’t turn or speak or even flinch at the contact, so Carmilla moved to sit beside him with her hand resting on his back. That’s when she noticed the shaking, and she held her breath.

He wasn’t crying, was he?

Her arm pulled tight around his shoulders and his shuddering grew into distinguished tremors. When he turned to face her with a mad sort of grin, she wasn’t sure how she should feel.

“Whatever are you doing here?” There was distance in his eyes and laughter in his tone, as though he was waiting for her to deliver the punchline.

She fought the urge to crash into his smile. Her impulses were beyond inappropriate and even harder for her to understand in the context of him here. While it might have been satisfying to taste his madness, she had an entirely different, and deadly serious reason for seeking him out.

On another night, she might be laughing with him. They might have ended up exchanging witty insults, or plotting out their next adventure, but the game was over now. Something had to change.

“Do you think this is a jest, Emiel? Coram is furious! Orianna is in tears!”

The laughter faded from him. “You’re here on her behalf, I take it.”

“You know she cares for you, dearly.”

“I can scarce imagine why,” he shrunk away from her touch, curling in his shoulders. “You may report to her that I am quite well and perfectly capable of caring for myself. She needn’t send you to look after me.”

“She didn’t ask me to come,” Carmilla shook her head and tried to focus on anything but the way his lower lip pouted.

“But you’re here for her sake nonetheless.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “I’m here because _I_ am worried for you, stupid!”

In his silent pause she could see the effort it took him to twist her words.

“I have no wish for your pity either.”

“Do you really think I came here out of pity?” She could feel her face growing hot from his deflections.

Emiel rolled his shoulders, throwing off her support. “It’s not my particular desire to believe it, but it’s certainly more than I deserve right now.”

“What you deserve right now is the help of those who care for you.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help!” he threw the words at her like daggers.

In a rush, apparently meant to punctuate to his argument, he jumped up, stumbled on his own feet, and tripped over the roof’s ledge and into a bush below.

Point made.

“Emiel!” Carmilla gasped, more with irritation than with worry, and peered over to find him.

In the long shadows below, she could see the lopsided boot of a man who needed no help, peeking out from the foliage. She misted down beside the bush, hands on her hips. When Emiel didn’t move she tapped roughly on his upturned boot.

He tucked the protruding limb back under himself and withered deeper into the shrubbery. “Oh, just leave me here, will you?”

“Must you always be this stubborn? Take my hand before I clobber you with it!” She reached down to help him up.

With a groan, he took her offered hand and she pulled him up to his feet. She might have known to use less force when his balance was already questionable, but her temper got the better of her and she spared him nothing. Thrown off his footing, he nearly tumbled into her, bracing himself against her shoulders.

His infuriating mouth lingered mere inches from her own.

Emiel’s breath hitched, coming fast and irregular, and damn it! She could still smell the blood on him! It should have been easy to hate him for it, but what it stirred instead was something too intense and terrifying to name—

Heat flushed through her skin, longing for touch, and her heartbeat deafened her ears.

—and he finally noticed. His stiff demeanor melted, replaced with a teasing glint in his eyes and a tilt to his lips.

“My, my… are you blushing?” He grasped onto her tighter, holding her in place.

“I—” Her words wouldn’t form into a proper defense. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to deny it.

Before she could decide to escape, before her mind allowed time to move at all _,_ those terrible, devious lips fell onto hers.

She could have stopped him, she really could have. She could have turned away. She could have done anything but melt into him like the helpless mess she was. She could have saved Orianna from the eventual heartbreak that Carmilla knew would come—

—but she didn’t want to. Just like she didn’t want to yearn for this troubled man. Just like she didn’t want to watch her timid sister stumble through her attempts to gain Emiel's attention. Just like she didn’t want to admit that the way they were perfect partners in crime had already cast them as parts of some imperfect whole.

Just like she didn’t want this moment to end.

She pressed eagerly into the kiss, breathing in his scent beneath the iron-tinged blood. She marveled over how his brows came together with need, and how the sunlight hit the lids of his eyes in such a way that made him look more at peace than she’d ever seen him. It was a look so completely vulnerable, one that he’d never worn in front of her before, and the way it pulled at her chest… Perhaps it was going to be _her_ heart that breaks over him.

She had to protect this vulnerable Emiel, and keep him sheltered from the night’s cruel temptations.

Closing her eyes, she reached up to place her hands on his back. What was left of her rational mind whispered that, perhaps, this could be a fleeting passion—influenced by the haze of blood and the rush of the morning. But she knew salvation was lost when she justified her lack of caution in his blissful sigh.

He pulled her tight against him. The contact with his body was dangerous and erotic, and when his hard cock brushed against her she felt a desire to reach down and make him writhe in her hands. Before she could act on it he tore himself away, gasping for air.

It took her a moment to realize he would not be resuming the contact, and when her eyes blinked open, his previously unguarded passion had turned to equally unguarded fear. Before he could say a single thing to ruin what he’d started, she took him by the wrist and saved him with her mercy.

“Emiel,” she breathed out his name with a long-suffering endearment, “how could you imagine what I feel for you is pity?”

He opened his mouth, and she could see that clockwork mind trying to piece together his next excuse. She pushed him back into the wall of the crypt and planted another kiss on his tireless mouth.

When she parted with him she brought her lips to his ear. “Dear fool, it’s no pity to help someone you admire.”

He trembled underneath her. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

With shocking skill for all his previous inelegance, he grabbed her wrists, spun around, and pinned her to the cold marble of the mausoleum.

The tiny, “Oh!” that escaped her was all that she could manage before his mouth was on her once again.

He was an inferno against her skin. Whatever inhibitions he may have clung to vanished as his lips melded with hers, leaving only the impression of _need_.

She wrapped herself around his neck and thigh, opening her mouth for him when his tongue flicked out to tease her. The feeling of him inside her, even in this small way, became the focal point to her whirling thoughts. Wherever this was leading, it wasn’t happening fast enough.

He slid one hand down her thigh and caressed upward, and when his fingers found the wetness of her tights Emiel moaned into her mouth. Carmilla felt the world give out beneath her feet.

There were far too many layers of clothing between them.

She tore at the buttons of his doublet, and Emiel parted with her lips only long enough to help lift the fabric over his head and toss it aside, then his hands were back at her waist. She licked and kissed along his neck, savoring the taste of him, as he pushed up her tunic to hook his fingers on the rim of her tights.

The narrow space between them made it hard to move, but she needed that closeness as much as she needed their clothing on the floor. In another time, with another partner, a game of playing coy might be fun, but not now. Not with him.

Carmilla twisted her lips away and caught her breath. “Let me.”

In a swirl of mist, her tunic and tights fell to the ground. When she reformed, still pinned between him and the wall, her features had changed, revealing sharp edges and proud fangs.

Naked, maskless, and fully exposed to his affections, she licked at her lips and waited for reciprocation.

“You are truly beautiful,” he breathed out, and Carmilla had never felt those words to be more real.

“If you’re expecting me to blush again you’ll be disappointed.” She smiled. “It is not as easy as you think.”

“I never imagined you might… that is I never hoped… heavens, you are beautiful!”

“And you are still wearing your trousers.”

The impeding garment fell to the ground with a thud as he swirled into fog, cool and weightless in the places where he tickled her. When his presence solidified, the lines of his already lean form turned rough and angular, but disbelief and want softened his blood-touched eyes.

Every inch of her skin ached for his as she pulled him by the nape of his neck into another fervent kiss. His hands raked over her, cupping and exploring, and making her feel worshiped in the most primal of ways. Carmilla reached down between them to stroke his cock, and his delightful hum against her skin drowned out all her other senses.

When their eyes met, there was mutual need and understanding, and he leaned in to align himself. One of his arms braced his weight above her head, and the other secured her thigh at his waist. As she guided him into her, there was no way to describe the look of broken joy that overtook him.

The sigh that escaped him as he started to move might have sent her into a mindless bliss as well, but then he tried to speak, stuttering something that was almost a word, and Carmilla pushed her head back on the cold marble and shut her eyes tight. The only thing she could imagine coming out of him in a moment like this was too much to take. She couldn’t process that now.

“Emiel, please!” She grabbed his ass and pulled him flush against her. “Fuck me!”

He groaned what sounded like her name, and she was gone. The hand against her thigh dug deep as he obeyed her command, destroying her in the exact way that she needed him to. His head buried into her neck, and his ruthless tempo held her in place as she gave over to the pleasure.

Carmilla arched to meet him and let the friction build, turning the world into a vacuum of breathless cries and swallowed moans.

How had it taken them so long to find this place?

Emiel nuzzled up into her cheek, and she brought her forehead down to rest on his. With their eyes locked, he thrust into her hard, twice, then stormed in to claim her lips as he came. His face contorted in such a beautiful way, Carmilla wished she could hold that image of him forever.

He was perfect like this—this troubled mess of a man who was hers.

“Carmilla?” He panted against her shoulder, showing no sign wanting to part.

“Don’t.” She pulled him in closer. She didn’t want him to say it, that would make everything too real, but she didn’t want him to leave. “Not yet.”

* * *

Carmilla awoke in the catacombs, stretched out with Emiel curled into her side. It had been a long morning, but somehow, through the tangling of limbs and endless need to touch, they had found their way back into her chamber before collapsing onto the bedding.

She was afraid to move with him resting so peacefully beside her, and when he stirred and flexed his arm around her waist, she brushed her fingers into his unruly hair.

The silence gave her space to begin rationalizing what had happened, and a black cloud hung over the moment in her mind. She knew she would need to explain herself to Orianna, and she feared her sister wouldn’t understand—Carmilla hardly understood herself.

Emiel’s drinking was a problem, and not just for her. If he continued on like he had last night, he would be forced out of the pack, either to forge his own path or find another. Their kind were rare, and he was so accustomed to his life among them, she couldn’t stand the thought of him being isolated like that.

And what if he had said what she thought he would say? What was she supposed to do with that?

Did she want to return that feeling?

She pressed her cheek into his hair and breathed him in. He was intoxicating; dripping with the smell of dried sweat and sex.

“We need a bath,” he mumbled, half asleep.

“We do.”

He stretched up to rest his head on her pillow, meeting her eyes. “I am truly sorry for everything that happened last night.”

“Everything?” She brushed her fingers up his side and he closed his eyes.

“Well, no, but well. You know.” A slight red colored his neck.

“Yes, I know.” Carmilla turned the thought over in her head, plotting out how she might get through to him. “It could have been much worse.” She paused, waiting for his reaction. When all he did was sigh and look back at her adoringly, she decided she must press him further.

“Emiel,” she faltered, taken aback at the novelty of his name stirring such affection, “why do you do such things?”

He looked to his feet and sighed again in a completely different tone. “I’m not sure.”

Maybe something less ambiguous would be easier for him; “Then why did you attack the Elder?”

His face bent into a scowl.

“There’s something off about him. He’s hoarded our history, our heritage, away like we have no right to it; he refuses to illuminate us as to his intentions beyond that which he touts as the proper behavior for vampires. He wants something from us, I know that much is true, and I’m not sure it’s worth the price we pay for his guidance.”

The reasons he gave were all valid ones, and they resonated with her most private thoughts, but he still didn’t answer her question.

“Are you in such a rush to throw your life away?”

“No,” he said, hiding his face in her neck.

He didn’t sound as certain as she would have liked.

“It’s difficult,” he continued, “talking, that is.”

This she couldn’t believe. Had someone swapped Emiel for this imposter over the course of the morning?

When she felt a kiss press into her neck, she hugged him close, stroking the tension from his back.

“I’m afraid—” he finally said, rolling back and staring into the empty space above them. She caught a glimpse of the disgust in his eyes before he covered them up with the back of his wrist. “—all the time. When I drink, I don’t feel it. I can say the things I’ve been thinking. I can _do_ the things I’ve been wanting to do.”

Oh gods… It hit her then that the mess she knew him to be was only smoke to the true fire. Whatever twisted logic he kept in his mind, it was going to take everything she had to make sense of it with him.

“You can’t go on like this, Emiel.”

“I know.”

“Will you let me help you?”

When he turned and looked her over a touch of panic hit her heart. “You’re helping me already, just by breathing.”

Not yet!

“You understand what I mean,” she countered, desperate to hide from that emotion in his eyes.

“I do.” He pulled himself up on an elbow and bent over to kiss her brow. “It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s not easy, but I can control it if I try. I’ve found a reason to be brave.”

It made her heart swell to think that she was so important to him—that she might bring him out of the dark. She buried her head into his chest and whispered to herself, “I believe in you.”

There was no hope for her now.

“Carmilla?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” he said, but the words meant so much more than that.


End file.
